The Fall
by medchan
Summary: Who fell first? Was it really Patrick's family? WARNING: Character death! Contains what would happen if Patrick were to lose to Red John. ONE SHOT.


**The Fall**

* * *

**_WARNING:_** Character death! Contains hints of slash if you squint real close.

* * *

_Who says that the good fall first?_

_Who claims that the innocent die young_

_While the wicked grow old and weary?_

_Lies, lies_

_The wicked fall first._

_Falling, falling_

_Forever falling_

_Into the ever seeking abyss_

_Falling, falling_

_Forever falling_

_Into the darkest recesses of the mind._

_Who says there's no justice for rich men?_

_Who says that evil hearts go free?_

_Lies, lies_

_The wicked fall first._

_Falling, falling_

_Forever falling_

_Into evil schemes and greedy dreams_

_Falling, falling_

_Forever falling_

_Never knowing the peace goodness brings._

_Those who fall first_

_Aren't always inherently evil_

_They fall prey_

_To they're envying ways_

_And they fall_

_Falling, falling_

_Forever falling_

_Engulfed in darkness_

_Swallowed completely by it_

_Falling, falling_

_Forever falling_

_Never knowing_

_If there's a way out…_

* * *

His wife. His daughter.

* * *

If you were to ask him, he would say they were the first to fall. Guilt is for marks; that's what his brother-in-law said. He knew that. He knew that and what's more, he believed it. It didn't make it any easier, spending those lonely nights in that barren empty room. It didn't comfort him in the least as he stared up into that red smile that would forever haunt him. He couldn't find solace because there was none, not while he knew that they would still be breathing if it hadn't been for his arrogance. Still, guilt was for marks and he swore he would never become one. Instead, he used his feelings to fuel his need for revenge.

* * *

Bosco. His team.

* * *

Bosco's team wasn't his fault. He knew that. He told himself that over and over, repeating it. It was all part of Red John's game. It wasn't his fault. Red John had done that one his own, without Jane's blessing, despite whatever the mad man had thought. It wasn't his fault but he still promised Bosco to kill Red John. Even if Teresa hated him, he would have his revenge. For both of them.

* * *

Christina Fry was next.

* * *

It wasn't just a punishment for her speaking out against Red John. He knew that. If it had been, he would have merely stopped after killing the reporter. He killed the reporter who'd interviewed her to punish Christina. No, it wasn't just a punishment for her speaking out. He kept her for so long for a reason. He killed her mind and spirit, leaving her body still alive for a reason. He wanted to punish Jane for getting close to somebody again. He wanted to torture him for opening up his heart to care, if even just the slightest. He knew that but guilt was for marks. He couldn't let what happened to her effect him. Still, he learned his lesson and he shut his heart a little more to the world.

He watched them fall.

One by one, those nearest to him fell. Agents, friends, strangers. Jared Renfrew. Emma, leaving her twin sister alive for his accomplice. Those college kids. The director. All of them prey to Red John.

* * *

But not his team. Never his team.

Until now.

* * *

He watched them fall as if it were in slow motion. Cho first, he never saw the bullets until they hit him. Two to the chest and he was down. Rigsby was next. He kept screaming for everyone to run, for Jane to get down, that he couldn't die today, he had a son waiting—one to the shoulder and one straight through the heart. He dropped like a sack of—like a sack. Grace, beautiful, fragile, messed up Grace was next. Just one through the forehead as she ran toward Wayne. She hit her knees, the back of her head exploding open, painting Lisbon in a speckled red. Jane was still frozen in place, trying to comprehend this. It wasn't Red John, not exactly. It was one of his followers, pretty Lorelie he'd slept with to get closer to his quarry. Lisbon was shouting his name, telling him to move, telling him to get down, telling him to _do something_ god damn it!

A figure appeared behind Lorelie and she smiled, enjoying the little nuzzle he gave her cheek. It was cliché but his face was masked by shadows and the hoodie he wore low over his head. Not a very big man, rather average in size although he boarded on tall. The knife flashed before she could train her gun on Lisbon. She crumpled, dead weight dropping her like a limp doll. Her gun went off, the bullet grazing his left arm and he winced out loud, the sound deafening in the silence. The figure in black clucked his tongue.

Patrick saw Lisbon train her gun on the dark figure. He heard him speak as though he was far away or under water. He couldn't make out the words. He was in shock, he knew that, and he desperately tried to snap his brain out of it. Lisbon snapped what she probably thought was a witty remark back at him, although Patrick couldn't be sure since he couldn't focus on anything. He saw her finger twitch and suddenly, everything seemed to be moving so fast. She was going to kill him. She was going to kill Red John. He moved on instinct, one thought repeating in his head. The words tumbled out of his mouth even as he yanked the gun away, the hot muzzle burning his hand. Red John is mine. Red John is mine. Red John is mine.

She tried to yank the gun back but he stepped in her line of sight. He couldn't let her kill Red John. He couldn't let her take his prey. Red John would die by his hand. He would have his revenge. She gestured with the gun for him to get out of the way, her glare of anger rivaling with concern. _Get out of the way, Jane. This isn't the time for your games._ Those were her last words, the last he ever heard her speak. A gun went off behind him, grazing his left side as it hit her lower right side. Strong arms wrapped around him from behind and he was tugged back, against a broad but almost soft chest. Hands shot forward, one holding the deadly knife, and her throat was slit in the next instance. Blood, red blood splashed on his face and chest as she fell. It was warm and wet; no, that wasn't right. It was almost hot, really, that freshly spilt blood of the woman he'd almost begun to love.

* * *

He never went back to the CBI. He doesn't know Teresa's still there. Mute now, unable to talk and ashamed of the scar on her neck, she covers her throat with an impressive array of scarves. She wears a new one every day, as if by hiding the scar, she can deny what happened. She sees it as a reminder from Red John of the day she lost the man she loved forever. She still hunts him, even now. Red John. And this time, she understands loss. She doesn't blame Jane for his need for revenge anymore. The madness took him and she'll avenge her lost love when _she's_ the one covered in blood this time, Red John's blood.

He doesn't know Cho survived. It was a miracle, that's what they said. He shouldn't have lived, not when the bullet tore through his lung like that, but he survived. He was in a coma for 5 months, a ventilator helping him breathe as his body mended. He spent 3 more weeks hospitalized and even now, he's still undergoing rehab. He's careful about taking the pain medication, only when he really has to, so he won't get hooked again. He made a promise to himself that he would never allow drugs to control his life. Rigsby might be gone, the real reason behind that promise, but he won't ever break it.

Jane doesn't know any of it. He didn't see the funerals or watch as the CBI tried to put the pieces back together after the aftermath. He didn't notice how the team seemed to slowly fall apart, now that their funny man Rigsby wasn't there to look on the bright side and their beautiful Grace wasn't there to offer hope anymore. He didn't know how much they missed _him,_ how much his absence effected not just the remainder of the team but the whole building. It became quieter, somehow, with him gone. Director Bertram stepped into office again, swearing he would put an end once and for all to Red John's reign to his people. Yet when he sat behind his desk, he looked older, much older than he ever had. Lisbon's smile was gone, the humor wiped out of her eyes, and Cho fell to barely uttering a word. The whole floor, where he'd once cracked jokes at other's expenses and the police he'd once pestered when he'd liaison, took on an almost jaded air.

He didn't see how much Rigsby's boy was growing, didn't watch as he was brought by the office by his mother. He doesn't know about the small wing dedicated in Van Pelt's honor. And when the small love notes, just little scraps of paper really, were found between Rigsby and Van Pelt, well, he didn't see the team's reaction. He didn't know about the tears cried, and how Lisbon longed to scream out profanities at Red John. He didn't know about Cho's frustration and how he beat on a trashcan when no one was looking. He'd suspected that there were still some fireworks between them, of course. He'd suspected, before the fall.

* * *

No, Jane didn't know any of it. He sat in a chair, staring at nothing. He was much the same as Christina was when they first found her—unresponsive and apparently dead inside. For a year he sat in that mental facility. Then two. Every week, Cho would visit him and tell him about the cases they were working on. He would work through scenarios, never expecting a response but still hoping he'd somehow bring his friend back. Jane just sat there, vacant gaze, and rarely spoke. Occasionally, when Cho was truly frustrated, he would croak out a phrase or two that would end up helping solve the case. He was still in there, somewhere, locked inside his own brilliant mind. Yet he refused to come out and his voice grew hoarse from disuse. Lisbon only visited him twice, on the anniversary of when he was admitted. She couldn't bear to see him this way. She meant to visit him every year on the anniversary but she never got a chance.

It was well into the second year when his blank expression altered. A sardonic smile, closer to a smirk, graced his lips as a new orderly entered his bedchamber. He was older than most of the recent college graduates that usually took such jobs before working their way up. Yes, he was well older, by at least fifteen years. He kneeled before Jane and stroked his cheek, his answering smile patronizing, proud, and calculatingly cruel. He spoke softly to Jane as he kneeled before him, stroking his cheek, his tone just a bit parental in nature. He came every day for a month, always avoiding running into Cho when he came to visit. Once, he was almost caught by surprise when Cho visited unexpectedly, frustrated by a case. He quickly made his way to the door, keeping his head low so that he wouldn't be recognized. He pauses at the door when he hears Partick's voice, low and cracked, respond to Cho. He glances back and their eyes lock for a moment. His face brightens with childish glee and cruelty as he realizes that his Jane is coming back to the world.

When he comes the next day, he's different. He's not dressed as an orderly. He disregarded the clothes of the unfortunate youth he'd killed to get close to his Jane. He kneels before the man and their eyes lock. He sees the brightness returning to his eyes, the intelligence. His Jane is still alive in that brain and he's returned to him at last. He murmurs his name softly and then offers to tell him a poem. Jane responded, actually responded with words and his hands moving forward to grasp him. Was he trying to strangle this dark clothed figure, so familiar and yet so hated? He chuckled, glad that his Jane hadn't changed.

When lunchtime came, Jane didn't make an appearance. He wasn't there early, as he usually appeared, and he didn't come directly on time, as sometimes happened when he had a visitor. He wasn't in his room. At first, they thought he'd simply wandered off somewhere in the facility, until the screams of an orderly were heard echoing through the halls. Patrick Jane was gone. A piece of torn cloth was left behind; the same cotton wove expected to see in a jacket or a hoodie. And by the side of the bed, an orderly's clothes as well as pictures of a dead body and a man with a circle on it. On the wall, painted in blood was the beginning of a poem and a red smile.

_Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright_

_In the forests of the night,_

_What immortal hand or eye_

_Could frame thy fearful symmetry?_

The CSI's tested the blood and it was a positive match to Jane. There wasn't enough used to be a lethal amount, although he had likely passed out from that much blood loss they concluded. The map only led them to the body of the orderly supposedly hired to help Jane. However, everyone agreed that the young man wasn't the one who'd been tending to him this past month. He interacted little with anyone and he kept his face away from the cameras, so no one could remember what he looked like. He was a ghost, one who's name the CBI knew very well. The search for Red John heated up but they never found any trace of him, besides the bodies he left them. On the anniversary of the first year he'd taken Jane, they received a picture of him, apparently asleep in what looked like a coffin. In the next image was a hand, and Partick covering his eyes, his lips parted no doubt in a groan. The final image was of him staring directly into the camera, the hand removed, his eyes alive with intelligence, life, and something else. There was an emotion in his eyes, one none of his old team or the director were familiar with. Bolstered by the possibility he might still be alive, they resumed their hunt for him again.

* * *

If you had asked Patrick Jane before his team fell, who had fallen first, he would have told you it was his wife and daughter. If you were to ask just before he was taken, he would have told you the same answer. But he knew that was a lie, it was always a lie. The first to fall was Patrick Jane and even now, he keeps falling, falling… Forever falling.

_Who says that the good fall first?_

_Who claims that the innocent die young_

_While the wicked grow old and weary?_

_Lies, lies_

_The wicked fall first._

_Falling, falling_

_Forever falling_

_Into the ever seeking abyss_

_Falling, falling_

_Forever falling_

_Into the darkest recesses of the mind._

_Who says there's no justice for rich men?_

_Who says that evil hearts go free?_

_Lies, lies_

_The wicked fall first._

_Falling, falling_

_Forever falling_

_Into evil schemes and greedy dreams_

_Falling, falling_

_Forever falling_

_Never knowing the peace goodness brings._

_Those who fall first_

_Aren't always inherently evil_

_They fall prey_

_To they're envying ways_

_And they fall_

_Falling, falling_

_Forever falling_

_Engulfed in darkness_

_Swallowed completely by it_

_Falling, falling_

_Forever falling_

_Never knowing_

_If there's a way out…_

* * *

Author's Note: Hope you enjoyed it. Just a bit of what I imagine life would be like if Jane were ever to lose a step and Red John won. Hopefully, that will never happen. In case you were wondering, I actually had a person in mind for Red John when I wrote this. I actually imagine Max Winters being Red John. There's just something poetic about him being Red John. He fits the type and the fact that Jane helped him get away with his revenge for his wife, well, that would make it even sweeter for him to taunt Jane.

**SPOILERS!**

_In case you don't know who Max Winters is, he was in the episode Red Carpet Treatment and he shot the man who killed his wife. Jane figures it out and gets him to admit it. However, because he feels a kinship to him, he also convinced Director Bertram not to pursue the case. In the end, he gets away with the murder. When Jane asks him if getting his revenges was worth it, he tells him it was._

**SPOILERS!**

As for the poem, _The Fall_, I wrote that. In fact, writing that poem is what inspired this story. If you don't like it, I understand, as it's a bit darker storyline. However, please don't flame or I will name you as a flamer in anything I write from now on. If you have **critiques**, feel free to give me them. I'd love to know how I can improve my writing.


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